


Lost in Translation

by Belphegor



Series: One-Step, Two-Step, Waltz [3]
Category: Original Work, The Mummy Series
Genre: Humor, Idiots in Love, Language of Flowers, M/M, based on a tumblr prompt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-28
Updated: 2020-07-28
Packaged: 2021-03-05 19:53:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,510
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25570882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Belphegor/pseuds/Belphegor
Summary: They are safer if they pretend to flirt with girls, Jon said, so Tommy has an idea: using the “language of flowers” to court young students of the female persuasion. Too bad he didn’t brush up on his carnations and gardenias beforehand...(set early in chapter 4 ofPas de Deux.)
Relationships: Jonathan Carnahan/Original Male Character
Series: One-Step, Two-Step, Waltz [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1780654
Comments: 2
Kudos: 6





	Lost in Translation

“Flowers?” Jon repeats, sounding a little suspicious. Tommy nods enthusiastically.

“Yeah, flowers! My cousin Annie and her husband sent each other flowers at least twice a week before they got married. She said each one had a special meaning and they had whole conversations without even sendin’ each other letters. Apparently flowers have a ‘language’.”

“That does ring a bell, yes,” Jon says, still squinting in that way he has when he thinks someone is trying to put one over on him. “It’s not a language I speak, though. And you’re proposing, what – giving flowers to random girls in the hope that they’ll stop long enough to talk?”

Tommy shrugs.

“Why not? At the very least it might make them smile. And it’ll make a good talkin’ point.”

There is no rejoinder, only a warm puff of air against the skin of his chest as Jon gives a snort. He does appear to think it over, though. After all, if they’re going to find girls they can pretend to court – which is the whole point of this conversation – anything that can help is welcome.

“All right,” says Jon finally. “What do we want to ‘say’, then?”

“Well, I was thinkin’ carnations, mostly. They’re supposed to be about, er, fascination, admiration, that sort of thing. The white ones are a symbol of innocence, I think.”

“Hm.”

Jon’s hand, which for the past few minutes was splayed on Tommy’s chest, shifts as he caresses the skin with the back of his fingers.

“We usually wear white carnations as boutonnières,” he points out with a small smirk that somehow manages to look thoroughly wicked. “How ‘innocent’ do you think that makes us?”

It’s Tommy’s turn to snigger. No amount of white carnations could make Jon look innocent. Even when he has neither said nor done anything reprehensible, he still gives the impression of being up to something.

“Not very. But that’s the thing about symbols – it’s all in the eye of the beholder, so to speak.”

“How very true.” Jon thinks for a bit, fingers still moving idly. “Look at green carnations. Sweet little flower, perfectly innocuous colour, but anyone who wears one at his lapel might get odd looks at best and probably a nasty encounter with the more savvy members of the constabulary at worst.”

“Why’s that?” asks Tommy, curious.

“Let me put it this way: if I were interested only in chaps and looking for a way to advertise that fact without, y’know, _advertising_ it, I could resort to wearing a green carnation at my lapel.” Jon pauses, lays a kiss just under Tommy’s collarbone, and adds, “Of course I’d have to be a bit desperate, considering the risks.”

He raises his eyes to Tommy’s, smiling that little smile of his, almost a smirk if it weren’t for the warmth. His expression is clear: _I’m glad I don’t have to_.

So is Tommy. He’s just had a week to ponder the fact that he actually said “I love you” for the first time, and he doesn’t regret it now any more than he did then. And it seems that Jon, for all that he’s looked a little frayed around the edges sometimes for most of the Christmas holidays, doesn’t regret saying it, either.

If pretending to flirt means he gets to keep what they have, then by God Tommy Ferguson is going to _flirt_.

* * *

Of course, when the next day Jon disappears then reappears with a dozen carnations and a grin like the cat that got the cream, Tommy starts to have creeping doubts regarding this whole operation.

“Where did you get those?” he asks, suspicious.

“You told me you didn’t want me to put more money than you into this endeavour of ours, didn’t you? Well, good news! You don’t have to pay one bob.”

Tommy’s jaw drops.

“Jon, for God’s sake – did you steal those?”

“No, I did not.”

Tommy stares at Jon until he squirms just a little.

“I _picked_ them,” he says pointedly. “There’s a difference. Stealing would imply they were someone else’s property.”

They probably were, but Tommy knows better than to ask. Except –

“Did anyone see you?”

“Who do you take me for, some bloody amateur?” says Jon, sounding scandalised. “The Parks are quite empty at seven in the morning. Besides, I _was_ careful, you know – only picked one flower every three or four. Not even the Superintendent’s going to notice. Shall we go?”

Go they do, but eastwards, towards the Water Meadow. Tommy isn’t too keen on setting foot in the University Parks while the flowerbeds look like they’ve been pillaged, and Jon, in an uncharacteristic display of sense, isn’t in a hurry to show his face there.

Unfortunately, when at the end of the day they compare their respective tallies, it becomes obvious that something is not quite right. Not only they both failed to get a single name, let alone a rendezvous, but most of the girls who stopped long enough to look at the flowers they were offered strode off in a huff.

Which means that the flowers Jon picked (in other words, stole) wither and become quite unfit for gifts by the day after.

That evening, at hall, Tommy and Jon both stare glumly into their mushy peas.

“I don’t understand!” says Tommy at some point, fork clattering on the table. “What kind of girl doesn’t like being handed flowers?”

“The local kind, evidently,” Jon mutters into his palm. It’s terrible manners, propping your elbow on the table and your chin in your hand, but it’s informal hall and they’re too despondent to care.

‘Darling’ Darlington – one of the few first-years who stayed in college for the entire vacation – looks at them curiously.

“What do you mean?”

“We thought we’d take advantage of the holidays to find company of the female persuasion.” Jon doesn’t miss a beat. He doesn’t even take his chin off of his palm. “No offence to you chaps, but a man needs a bit of variety once in a while.”

This is said matter-of-factly, like a truth universally acknowledged. Meanwhile, Tommy feels Jon’s foot nudge his ankle under the table, and he grins into his glass.

Darling nods wisely.

“That’s only natural. I wish you the best fortune. But where do flowers come into it?”

“I thought we could use the ‘language of flowers’,” says Tommy, who is fully prepared to shoulder the blame for the apparent failure. “We got a bunch of carnations to give girls, to convey admiration and all that, but all we got was glared at.”

“I see.” Darling eats a bit of his beef, swallows, and asks, “And what colours were your carnations, if I may?”

“Yellow, mostly,” Jon replies. “Some had stripes. Why?”

The bark of laughter Darling lets out makes the whole table turn to look at them.

“Because,” Darling says with barely-restrained mirth, “yellow carnations convey disdain and rejection, and the striped ones mean refusal. You spent a day telling every girl you met that you despised them and couldn’t be with them.”

Tommy and Jon both open their eyes wide, stare at each other, and groan.

“Oh, bloody hell.”

“Which flowers should we have used, then?” asks Tommy just a little desperately.

Darling puts down his fork and counts off, still grinning, “Let me see… Pink roses for grace, gardenias for secret love, chrysanthemums for joy and optimism – only not the yellow ones, that’s ‘slighted love’…”

“I think I’ll stick to English to speak to girls after all,” says Jon flatly. “Fewer risks of misunderstandings that way.”

Darling’s eyes are twinkling in a way that says he’s finding their misadventure a lot funnier than they do, but at least he makes no further comment.

“Well,” says Tommy as they file out of the hall after dinner, “there goes my idea.”

“It wasn’t a _bad_ idea,” Jon insists, which makes Tommy smile, because if he knows Jon at all at least half of that isn’t a lie. “The execution needed work, that’s all. Doesn’t mean we’re all that hopeless.”

“I know.” Tommy’s mind strays to the wilted carnations they’re going to have to get rid of somehow and he says, “No more stealing flowers to give to girls, though. We’ll find something else.”

Jon agrees, the matter is closed, and they’re off to the pub.

* * *

A few days later, after the start of term, Tommy takes two minutes between class and a late morning shift at the Turf Tavern to drop into his hamper a few dirty collars, cuffs, and drawers he forgot in Jon’s room. Just as he’s about to run out, however, he notices his bed is slightly unmade.

Slightly, but in a very conspicuous way.

Tommy makes to fold the covers properly, but stills when he spots something that sticks out from under the pillow.

And laughs.

It’s a sheet of paper, folded in two, in which lie two flowers, neatly pressed: a gardenia and a green carnation.

Three hours later, at the end of his shift, Tommy is still smiling like an idiot.

**Author's Note:**

> A boutonnière in English is the flower a man can wear at the lapel of his jacket. (In French it’s a buttonhole. *shrug*)
> 
> Oscar Wilde, trailblazer and trendsetter that he was, wore a green carnation on his lapel, and it became a symbol for gay men from the late Victorian age well into the 20th century.
> 
> Hope you liked! If you did, leave a comment, pleasepleaseplease? :o)


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